


Making A Move

by afteriwake



Series: What Happens In The Aftermath [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-13
Updated: 2015-02-13
Packaged: 2018-03-12 05:55:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3346034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/afteriwake/pseuds/afteriwake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has been thinking about the conversation he had with Mary in her daughter's room and a few days later decides that Mary was right. But seeing as how he's not the best at handling relationships he asks John for advice, and upon receiving it finally makes a move, even if it doesn't go as planned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Making A Move

**Author's Note:**

> As I said, I wasn't going to let them not be together for long. I think I'm going to enoy their relationship unfolding in this series a lot.

The conversation he had had with Mary had lingered in his mind, clouding his thoughts. The evening meal that night had been unusual in that he made little attempt to say anything, instead running over his points of objection and Mary's multiple points of rebuttal. She had approached the situation in the best way. She had attacked each objection he had with logic. If she had approached it in any other way he would have brushed it off and continued giving the idea only the occasional mind like he did before. But she had attacked it the way a DI attacks a shaky alibi, pointing out the fault in each argument. He hated to admit it, but Mary knew exactly how he worked and she could get her point across better than anyone else who knew him. It was unnerving.

Now it was three days later and instead of being able to give the case his full attention his mind kept wandering back to the conversation in Ava's bedroom. He had studied Molly that evening, more than he usually did, and while she had worn a smile and sounded moderately cheerful he could see it was all an act. When attention wasn't focused on her he could see her lips were turned downward and her brow furrowed, and she seemed defeated. The realization she had come to that day had shaken her to the core. She was now expecting to lead a spinsterly life until she died, and she had lost what little hope she'd managed to regain that she could be happy eventually. And he realized he absolutely hated seeing her looking that hopeless.

She had wormed her way into his life from the start, even when he had only viewed her as one of many pieces to move and manipulate to get what he needed. While he viewed everyone with varying levels of disdain, he had always viewed her with less disdain than most. Their first meeting had set the tone for their interactions for years to come: she treated him with kindness and he treated her as something unimportant, and while that should have faded as time wore on it didn't. He found himself waiting to go to the morgue when she was working as opposed to the other specialist registrars. On the few occasions he was asked about it he gave a flippant answer, and he tried to tell himself that it was because she was more easily manipulated than the others, but it was mostly that she didn't judge and he liked that about her. He would ask her to let him do things to the John Does that would make most people blanch and she never looked at him as if he was mad like the others did. He would never openly admit that he liked that about her but it was there.

Then John came into the picture. John got along with her straightaway, even when she stumbled over words or said something embarrassing. John treated her with kindness, and it was obvious to all that she appreciated it. And John would scold him after the particularly rough encounters, talking about what a good woman Molly was. Sherlock had known exactly what kind of woman Molly was. He'd studied her to learn how to move her around his board, how to manipulate her to do what he wanted her to do. She was a good woman who was eager to please, a romantic at heart who wanted to be the heroine of some grand love story, a more than competent pathologist who could occasionally bring up avenues of inquiry he had overlooked. It was only the first and last aspects of her that mattered to him because the first made her amenable to what he needed to do and the last helped him do his work. He may not have cared that she was a good woman for the longest time but he respected her knowledge of her field. When it came to the study of death she was almost as good as him and he respected her for that even if he didn't act like he did.

Moriarty changed that for a time, when she paraded him through his lab. He'd looked at her as pathetic that afternoon. He actually lost respect for her because she did that. It wasn't until after the encounter at the pool, when Moriarty showed just how dangerous he could be, that he realized Moriarty had probably used her. It made her a bit less pathetic in his eyes, but he wasn't about to show her that. They continued on until Christmas, when things changed again. He hated the holiday, hadn't wanted the party, and Molly's arrival and the one package wrapped with care had been enough to let him let loose some of the disdain he felt about a lot of things. And then she stood up to him. He hadn't expected that at all. He was never one to take criticism to heart but he heard what she said. He heard it and he listened to the tone of her voice, studied the steel in it. He watched her straighten herself up as she spoke and he saw that she had had enough, that he had pushed her to her limit. And then it registered that the gift had been for him. She had paid special attention to him and he had, in turn, humiliated her. He didn't feel sorry about much but for that he did. The kiss on the cheek had been impulsive, and he was still surprised to this day that he had done it, that he had gotten close, but he realized that she deserved to know this apology was true and that the gift was appreciated. If it hadn't been for Irene's ill-timed message perhaps he could have extended more of an olive branch, but she sent the text and he had to be pulled away, leading to the encounter at her morgue with the dead body and Molly's questions on how he could know it was Irene with her face bashed in. That hadn't been awkward, at least for him, but he knew she looked at him differently for a while afterward.

He attempted to be slightly more considerate towards her after that. He wasn't sure if it was noticeable, if she appreciated it or not, until Moriarty made his play. When she said she noticed he was sad when John wasn't looking and he told her that she counted, that she had always counted, he knew then that she was going to be special to him. Not just because her expertise was going to help him pull off the trick of the century, but because she saw in him what others ignored, saw through the fake smiles and the sour attitude and the tremendous ego, and she always had. She _cared_ when he had given her no reason to. And he knew then he was going to care about her in return.

She had insisted he stay with her. Mycroft wanted him to go to his home but Molly said she lived closer, it would be easier to secret him there, and the two of them would probably kill each other before Sherlock even attempted to solve the problem. Reluctantly, Mycroft agreed. When they arrived at her home he had chosen to stay in her bedroom, and he wasn't surprised that she had acquiesced. He stayed there for three weeks, holed up inside the walls of her home, and between the conversations he had with her and the snooping he did while she was at St. Bart's he learned everything he could about her. He wanted to know everything he had ignored before so he could try to figure out the fundamental truth of Molly Hooper. To this day he still wasn't quite sure if he knew it, but when he was gone he would occasionally try and solve the puzzle of how she came to be the woman she was. When he did that he would find a bit of solace, in a way, because it wasn't as painful to think about her as it was the others. When he thought of her he could take comfort in the fact she knew the truth and she was waiting for him to come home.

He hadn't expected things to be so different, however. Tom had been a surprise but also not been a surprise. He had expected her to move on, find someone who reminded her of him, but he hadn't expected her to have pulled away from the idea of being someone he was close to. He may not have told her as much but she was a friend, as close a friend as Mrs. Hudson or Lestrade, and it was strange knowing she was letting someone else influence how she dealt with him. He despised Tom from that moment on. The comment in her lab when she was overenthusiastic about her sex life had been jarring but he had realized from the tone and the comment coming out of nowhere that things were not as perfect for them as she wanted them to be. The scene at the wedding reception had only furthered that notion. If he hadn't been high as a kite the first time he saw her after her engagement had ended he might have been more tactful in his noticing but even as he said it and she slapped him again he was glad for it. She deserved to be happy and Tom wasn't a suitable choice. 

And then it all came crashing down. The plot to entrap Magnussen, the murder, the exile to what amounted to a suicide mission...any chance he might have had of making amends was dashed until Moriarty very publicly made his return. In a way it was a relief that he didn't have to be flown away to his hastened death, but if he had known what laid ahead for all of them he wouldn't have been so relieved. This time the game had different players, different targets, different stakes. This time Moriarty was making up for his error in not thinking Molly was a particularly important pawn. And this time Moriarty nearly took away so much more. It had been four months since the end of it all and he doubted he would ever truly move past it. He was going to stay angry at Moriarty for the rest of his life.

He stood up from his position sitting in his chair, beginning to pace. He needed to stop dwelling on the past and focus on the current predicament. Molly was absolutely miserable. Even though she soldiered on, put on a façade to the world that she was coping well and moving on she wasn't, not really. And he wasn't either, to be honest. They were similar in that regard, that they put on a face for the world at large but inside they were deeply hurt. Neither one of them was moving past this. Neither one of them was truly okay. But he could help her. He could give her back the hope she had seemed to have lost. He would have to spend time with her on dates, he would have to let her get close and in turn be close to her, he would have to actually talk about things as opposed to shoving it all deep down. It seemed like a lot, but strangely it didn't seem like it was too much for him to give. He wasn't sure he'd be any good at it, though. He was still terrified he'd hurt her in the end.

Finally he stopped pacing and went for his mobile. He could talk to John, get his opinion on things. It was only nine in the evening. John was usually still awake this time of night. He pulled up John's contact and hit send. It rang three times before he answered. “Yes, Sherlock?” John asked, punctuating his name with a yawn.

“It's only nine o'clock. Why are you yawning?” Sherlock asked, going to his chair and flopping down in it.

“Because Ava has colic and I'm trying to be a kind and loving husband and letting my wife sleep,” he said.

“Is it working?”

“Not in the slightest,” he said with another yawn. “But I can chat for a bit before I drop of exhaustion. What's on your mind?”

“Your wife thinks it would be in my best interest if I began a relationship with Molly,” he said. “And I don't know if I should. She went through each of my objections and logically refuted them, but I'm still not sure I won't make a hash of everything. And I refuse to hurt Molly any further.”

“Yeah, Mary told me about that conversation,” he said. “Personally I think she's right. You two would be good for each other. I think the two of you dating would help both of you heal and move on. It's obvious to anyone she's still mad about you, and it's also just as obvious that she's extremely important to you. And to be honest I think that you are the only she would trust not to use her up and spit her out, and I think you look at her in exactly the same way.”

“But what if I make a hash of it all?” he asked. “I could. I very well could and you know it.”

“Yeah, you could. But look at it this way: are you going to regret it if you don't try? Every time you look at her, are you going to wonder if you should have made a move and given the both of you a chance to be happy in the aftermath of all of this? Because if you think you are then that's a sign you need to make that move.”

Sherlock was quiet for a moment. “But what if I hurt her?” he said.

“You can't possibly hurt her any worse than that bastard did, emotionally or physically,” he said. “Even you at your worst will only hurt her a fraction of how much he hurt her. And if you tell her up front you don't want to hurt her she'll help you make sure you don't. You just have to listen to her. You have to put her needs on par with your own, but I think for her you'll make the effort and not complain about it.”

He leaned back in the seat and shut his eyes. “How do I do it?”

“What, you mean ask her out on a date?” John asked.

“Yes. You've obviously had much more experience with it than I have, considering how often you cycled through girlfriends when we lived together.”

“The only reason I _had_ so much experience, Sherlock, is you sabotaged every relationship I was in. And before you argue that you didn't it may not have always been consciously but you bloody well did.”

“Well, I haven't done that with Mary which tells me your taste has improved.”

“Part of the reason you find her acceptable is because she's clever,” he said. “Sometimes shes just as clever as you.”

“That's beside the point, and we're getting off topic” he said with a hint of irritation. “How do I broach the idea of entering into a romantic relationship with me to Molly?:”

“You could start off with a simple 'Would you like to get a bite to eat,' I suppose.”

“We already dine together often. She'll think it's another one of those dinners where we sit and talk about anything other than what happened. Next?”

“You could tell her that you've thought about it and you want to see what it would be like to go on a date with her,” he suggested.

“That makes it seem like I'm trying to run an experiment,” he said. “Next?”

“I don't know. Try 'Mary and John think we should date and I agree.'”

“And have her think we all discussed this behind her back?”

“We _are_ discussing it behind her back, Sherlock,” John replied, sounding slightly irritated. “Look. Why don't you go see her and play it by ear? You'll have a better idea of what to say if you're watching her as you speak.”

“As you aren't being much of a help, fine,” he said in a huff.

“I'm going to let that slide,” John said. “Go tell her now. And wait until tomorrow to tell me what happened, all right? Once my head hits the pillow I'm hoping I can at least get a few hours of uninterrupted sleep.”

“Very well,” he said. “Good night.”

“Good night,” John said, punctuating the last word with another yawn before he hung up.

Sherlock lowered his mobile and stood up again. It couldn't be too hard, he thought to himself. Go to Molly, tell her that he cared and ask her if she would allow him to try and be in a relationship with her. There. Simple and straightforward. It wouldn't be hard. He went over to his coat rack and got his coat, putting it on, and then he went to his front door. He hesitated a moment, though, not knowing if Molly was still awake or if she was at home. He pulled his mobile out of his pocket again and pulled up her contact. Then he hit send and waited. “Sherlock?” she asked when she picked up on the second ring. “Is everything all right?”

“Yes, everything is fine,” he said with a frown. “Why would you think something's wrong?”

“You don't usually call me this late unless you need to work something out for a case and it's a life or death situation,” she said.

“It's only nine oh eight,” he said, glancing at his watch.

“It's still late. But it's all right. I was up anyway. What do you need?”

He was quiet for a moment. “I wanted to talk to you. In person, I mean. Not over the phone.”

“Well, I suppose I can come over to your home. I don't have to go to St. Bart's tomorrow since it's my day off.”

“I was going to come to you,” he said with a frown. “But if you want to you can come over.”

“Why did you want to come over here? You're usually far more comfortable at your home,” she said.

“I suppose if it didn't go well then it would be less awkward,” he said, and he regretted it the minute he said it.

“Why wouldn't a conversation between us go well?” she asked. “We're friends. Good friends, at that. What could you possibly have to say that would make me upset with you?”

“It's not that you'd get upset, it's that it just wouldn't turn out well. You could still say no, or I could make a complete mess of things.” Then he paused. “Which I seem to be doing regardless.”

She was quiet for a moment. “Sherlock, are you...are you trying to ask me out on a date, maybe?”

“That had been the intention, yes,” he said. “But it didn't go at all how I had wanted it to.”

“Ah,” she said. “I know it's a bit late now and there really aren't date things we can do and it's not really a good idea to go take a walk, but tomorrow why don't we go see a film at the cinema, and maybe have supper too? Or lunch, if you want.”

“As in a date?” he asked. 

“Yes, as in a date,” she said.

“I was supposed to ask you,” he said. “Not you ask me.”

“Well, it's the modern age. I just hadn't thought you'd be interested. Now that I know you are I figured I'd ask you for a specific date.” Then she paused. “If you want, you can still come over tonight. Have you eaten yet?”

“No,” he admitted. “I had a late breakfast and that was it.”

“Well, I made stew for supper. Come over and I'll feed you and we can talk,” she said. “Maybe make some more concrete plans for tomorrow?”

“I would like that,” he said, beginning to relax more. “I know this isn't the way I'd wanted it to go but I'm pleased about tomorrow. And tonight as well, I suppose.”

“I'm glad. And we'll just take it slowly. Tonight can be a quasi-date. Tomorrow will be the real thing. So I'll see you shortly, all right?”

“All right,” he said, nodding even though she couldn't see him. “I'll see you soon.”

“Okay then. Bye, Sherlock.”

“Good-bye, Molly.” He ended the call after that and looked at his mobile with a small smile on his face. While it hadn't gone the way he'd planned it _had_ gone well, and he supposed in the end that was what mattered most.


End file.
